


How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You

by zulu



Category: House M.D.
Genre: 07-06, M/M, Threesome, foreman fest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2007-06-17
Updated: 2007-06-17
Packaged: 2017-10-02 01:05:11
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,940
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/996
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/zulu/pseuds/zulu
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Turns out it really is all about sex.</p>
            </blockquote>





	How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You

**Author's Note:**

> Betas by thedeadparrot, leiascully, cadence_k, and daemonluna.

**How To Shoot At Someone Who Outdrew You**

When House opens the door, Wilson sighs and picks up his suitcase. "Turns out you're right," he says. "It really is all about sex." He barely waits for House's nod before he walks in. He lets his shoulders slump, not expecting House to be anything resembling supportive. He scrubs at his face with his free hand, knowing that he'll soon be sleeping on House's lumpy couch and living out of a garment bag for the foreseeable future. He needs a distraction. House's place is so familiar that he heads into the living room with his brain and his body on autopilot. He's thinking about food, about a shower later, about phoning his attorney in the morning.

So, really, it's completely understandable that the last thing in the world on his mind is Foreman.

Foreman, sitting on House's couch, with a glass of whiskey in his hand.

Wilson blinks, looks over his shoulder, and then turns back to the couch. Foreman.

Wilson drops his suitcase. House wanders in and hands him a beer.

Foreman is still on House's couch.

"Um?" Wilson offers.

"Of course I'm right," House says. "It's always about sex."

* * *

Foreman rolls his eyes, grabs his jacket off the back of the couch, and heads for the door. Wilson turns to watch him go. He can't do much more than that; he's stunned, speechless. Foreman pulls open the door, throws another disgusted glance at House, and then slams out.

"Bye, Foreman!" House calls after him. He picks up Foreman's abandoned glass and drains the last of the drink. He twists his mouth and smacks his lips with satisfaction at the bite of the alcohol, then he shakes his head and sets the glass down. "Well, _he_ was huffy."

"He--" Wilson spins around again, trying to point out all the things that are wrong, deeply and fundamentally _wrong_, with this entire situation. "You--"

"I _know_," House says. "My milkshake brings all the boys to the yard. Must be all that charisma I radiate."

"Since _when_?" Wilson demands, flinging out his hand and noticing that he's still holding the beer House gave him, like a broken pointer.

"Well, it all started one very special night when I was fourteen and I woke up with my pjs feeling sticky--"

"You and _Foreman_," Wilson clarifies, having made the brain-saving decision to ignore anything House says that isn't relevant. It's helped him so far in their crazy excuse for a friendship, and he's willing to continue relying on it to keep most of the worst mind-shattering ideas at bay.

House shrugs a bit. "Off and on. So, you got kicked out at last, huh?"

"Julie..." Wilson says vaguely. "I left her. She was sleeping with someone else."

"The pool boy?"

"We don't have a pool."

"I didn't say he had to be _your_ pool boy," House says, in a way that's completely infuriating because of how reasonable he's pretending to be.

"She doesn't-- House. What the _hell_ was Foreman doing here?"

"Not much," House says. "Your timing really sucks. You couldn't have put off your marital crisis for another hour or so? Some of us were actually banking on getting laid tonight."

Wilson raises one hand to stop House from _speaking_. The other goes to his eyes to massage away the imagery attendant on that statement.

"At least I got your mind off your troubles," House says.

"No, actually, you didn't," Wilson says, with a kind of desperate sarcasm. "I--I don't have a home any more. My marriage has fallen apart. I just learned that my wife has been cheating on me--"

"Oh, come on, it's not that bad," House says. "At least you've had the pleasure of naughty nurse nookie for months."

"I wasn't having an affair!" Wilson yelps.

"Huh," House says. "I was. Think I should've hung a stethoscope on the door?"

* * *

When the door knob rattles, they both turn to look at it, Wilson with the sad and futile hope that it will be Chase and Cameron dyed pink and riding a unicycle, thus proving that this is all a very bad dream; and House with a sort of innocent expectation.

This time, it's slightly less of a shock to see Foreman. By this point, he's got _disgusted_ down to an art form, and he stares at House with his jaw set and one eyebrow raised.

"Oh, Foreman, you're back," House says, as if Foreman had just stepped out to the corner store for a quart of milk.

"I could go," Wilson says. "I'm-- I'll go." He feels about as awkward as he did at his first semi-formal, and just as invisible.

Foreman barely glances at him, but it's pretty much exactly the same as any look Foreman's ever given him, which is to say, a little bored and slightly dismissive. He's focused on House, his lips pressed together in anger. "Keys, House."

House blinks with his fakest fake bewilderment. "Keys?"

Foreman looks like he's inventing new ways to loathe House completely with each second that passes, but he just shakes his head and goes into the kitchen. House tilts his head at Wilson--it's a familiar gesture, one he used to use when Stacy was being (in House's opinion) totally irrational--and then he follows Foreman out of the room.

Standing around haplessly has lost a lot of its appeal, so Wilson takes three or four hesitant steps closer to the kitchen, and ignores the niggling voice that insists that he isn't going to like what he hears if he eavesdrops.

Foreman's moving stuff and opening the cupboards, searching for the keys that House presumably lifted when he wasn't paying attention. The fact that he opens the sugar bowl and looks inside suggests that this isn't the first time House has picked his pockets, and it's not the first time Foreman's run up against House's ideas of what constitutes a good hiding spot. Most people, House kicks out of his apartment by rote. Wilson thought he was the only one who knew what lengths House will go to to keep a guest if he wants to, but Foreman knows his way around House's kitchen so easily that this must be far from the first time he's been here. And Wilson, who's over at House's place so often that he already almost lives here, had no clue. He wonders how the hell they managed to hide it, considering he can't imagine Foreman letting House into his home. That doesn't mean anything, though, since before tonight Wilson would have been hard pressed to imagine House and Foreman exchanging a civil word, let alone bodily fluids. And, of course, now that he's managed it, he can't imagine why he tried.

"What the hell did you let him _in_ for?" Foreman asks, as he slams the oven door closed. Wilson's not sure whether he should be insulted at how hard Foreman's working to ignore the fact that he's standing right there.

"Compassion?" House suggests. He's leaning hipshot against the island in the middle of the kitchen, not helping the search, and actively getting in the way whenever he can manage it. "Friendship? I have a weakness for kicked puppies?"

"No," Foreman says, as though explaining this for the tenth time to a slow child, "you don't. You wanted him to find out."

"Well, that's just crazy talk," House says. "If I'd planned this, we'd've already made it to third base before he walked in."

"Trust me, you're never making it to any base with me ever again," Foreman says. He gives up on the kitchen and heads back to the couch, shoving House's piles of medical journals around on the coffee table. Wilson wonders if he should offer to help, since House isn't doing much more than tilting his head to get a better angle for ogling Foreman's ass when he bends over to look under the couch. And that's something that Wilson does not want to be _thinking_.

"That's what you said the second time," House says. "And seventh. And the nineteenth." He scrunches up his face as if he's calculating, and adds, "Actually, once every three weeks, on average."

Wilson does his own math, and blurts out, "This has been going on for three _months_?"

"Anyway, he has a key," House says to Foreman, as if Wilson isn't there and trying to find any way possible to unknow what he knows. "He would have come in whether I opened the door or not. He has these knight-in-shining-armour fantasies where he gallantly saves me after I've fallen and I can't get up."

"I don't--" Wilson wants to object, but House just looks at him, and he has to admit that if House didn't answer, Wilson would probably bust down the door first and worry about what he'd find after. Although from now on he's going to have second thoughts. And thirds. And even then he's probably going to go to House's building manager rather than burst in himself. The possibility of hookers was bad enough. _This_ is--he still can't quite picture it. It's like imagining House loving orphans and helping the elderly across busy intersections.

Foreman's digging behind the couch cushions, and at last, he comes up with a key ring. "You couldn't stand that I wouldn't let you rub this in anybody's face," he says. "You wanted him to know."

"Oh, give it up," House says. "I could've said something at work at any time. If I'd planned this, the camcorder wouldn't still be in the bedroom."

"_Gah_," Wilson says, or some sound to that effect.

"See?" House practically snickers. "His reaction shots are priceless."

Foreman throws up his arms, keys jingling, and stalks out of the apartment again.

House blocks the door before Foreman can slam it behind himself. "_Also_ if I'd planned this," he shouts, as a kind of parting shot, "I'd've figured out a way to get Wilson to join us."

Then, House pauses long enough to stick his head back inside and roll his eyes at Wilson, and heads out after Foreman.

* * *

For a rare moment, it's quiet in House's apartment. No TV, no blasting music, no _House_. Wilson takes what feels like his first breath since he knocked on House's door. He sits down on the couch--slightly the worse for wear after Foreman's hunt through the cushions--and stares blankly at the wall. After a minute, he realizes he's still holding the beer House gave him, so he cracks it open and takes a drink.

It takes about that long for his imagination to catch up with him, and he starts thinking about how, exactly, Foreman lost his keys in the couch. House didn't necessarily take them, after all. Wilson's had his share of shameful moments digging through couch cushions for the contents of his pockets after make-out sessions got too vigorous. House didn't look any more dishevelled than he does on a regular basis. He could have rolled straight out of bed after a three-day bender and looked about the same. Foreman, though, was in his shirtsleeves, and he wasn't wearing a tie. He didn't look flustered, but there's not much about Foreman that's easily mussed, and any flush or beard burn probably wouldn't show much. Wilson clenches his bottle tighter, still wishing he could pass this off as anything except what it obviously is.

He nearly jumps off the couch when the door opens. House has been gone long enough to--what? Whisper sweet nothings in Foreman's ear? Apologise for having their...tryst...interrupted? Neither sounds anything like House, or like Foreman, for that matter. It's far more likely that House yelled at Foreman for chickening out of the threesome he'd set up, made a derogatory comment about Foreman driving a getaway vehicle, and then stuck his tongue down Foreman's throat as a reminder of what he's going to be missing tonight.

The fact that Wilson can guess that much about House's seduction technique is really, really disturbing. He decides not to think about it. Ever.

He kind of wants to ask what House said to Foreman, but then again, he really doesn't, so he just watches House nudge the door shut and head back into the living room. House glances at him when he sits down beside him on the couch, but he doesn't say anything. He reaches for the TV remote and flicks on the set.

"That's-- Are we just going to _ignore_ this?" Wilson says. He's not usually the one left astounded at House's ability to avoid talking about anything that matters, but then, he doesn't usually walk in on House and _Foreman_. If it had been Cameron, or Cuddy--or hell, even _Chase_\--then maybe he could have dealt with it. Wilson shifts uncomfortably. Maybe. Possibly. He's pretty sure.

"Monster trucks are on," House says gruffly, and turns determinedly to watch the television.

Wilson stares at the Crushinator tearing its way through a field of flaming wrecks and can't even take it in. He's too busy trying to blink away the thought, _why Foreman?_ "He doesn't even _like_ you," he finally bursts out.

"Yeah, but he sure likes fucking me," House says, not even missing a beat.

Wilson's halfway expecting something like that, so he barely pauses before coming back with, "How did this even start--?" Then House's words penetrate, and he shakes his head sharply. "_He_\--fucks _you_?"

"If he gets me off first, then I let him," House says. "I'm an equal opportunity kind of guy."

"Stop. House." Wilson tries to push the words away. "I don't...I don't need details. Why on earth are you telling me this?"

"Other than, _you asked?_" House nods at the couch. "Guess where?"

Wilson scrambles to his feet. How easy it was to eradicate his own vision of House and Foreman getting it on. He's never going to be able to sleep here. "I'm getting a hotel room," he says, and he knows he sounds pissed off. Rightfully so.

House glances up at him levelly. "But not tonight," he says.

"You obviously don't want me staying here."

"I didn't say that."

"I'm happy for you, House. Really. Excuse me if I don't want to get in the middle of this..." He flails around for words that aren't 'sordid' or 'tawdry', and finishes with, "...whatever it is." He looks around again, as if the evidence that he's been somehow missing completely for three months will come out of hiding, and then stops, because House is peering at him as if he's the most puzzling specimen in the lab. "What?"

"You're _interested_."

Wilson throws up his hands. "I never wanted to know!"

"Yeah, but now that you do, you can't stop thinking about it. Wilson, you kinky bastard." House's look turns amused. He's got Wilson squirming, and House has never been able to stop poking once he knows he'll get a reaction. "To answer your question, it started because we were arguing over patient care."

"_Patient care?_ You--"

"Don't remember exactly what the bone of contention was," House says. "Other bones were more on my mind just then."

Wilson rolls his eyes, scrambling to get his equanimity back. "Witty. Are you sure that's not the plot of a porno you watched?"

House leans back into the couch, the very picture of lolling comfort. "I was proving a point."

"And of course you had to take it as far as sexually assaulting one of your employees."

"It was a really big point." House's grin turns lascivious.

"And at _this_ point, I don't even want to know whether you're talking about his dick or yours."

House nods conspiratorially. "Don't worry, I won't tell you. There are better ways of finding out."

Wilson can feel his jaw drop, but the incredulity is nothing compared to the flush of--embarrassment, of course it's embarrassment--rushing through his body. "You weren't joking."

"About getting off first? I'm a gentleman. I'd never suck and tell."

"You want me to...join you."

House smirks. "Let's just say I'm not the one you need to convince."

"I don't need to be convinced either!"

House raises his eyebrows. "Glad you're on board. Guess Foreman's the only hold-out."

Wilson wants to smack himself in the forehead for walking straight into that one. "House, I meant I don't want you trying to convince me to have a threesome with Foreman--"

"Cameron's more your speed, I know," House says, pursing his lips sympathetically. "Well, I'm not asking her. You're going to have to do all the work if you want that to happen."

"I don't want to have a threesome! At all!"

"It's really sad that you feel you can't share my love," House says, pouting. He pats his chest a little, and Wilson winces and turns away before he has to see House's hand come to rest just under his belt. "You don't have to worry. There's more than enough of this to go around."

That's over the top, even for House, and Wilson shakes his head, finally getting it. "Foreman was right," he says. "You wanted me to know."

House frowns, and reaches for his cane. "You were bound to find out eventually. I can't keep anything from you, Jimmy, can I? Because if I'm happy without you--"

"Don't try making this my fault," Wilson says. He's back on firmer ground now. He lets the happiness remark pass without comment, because it's already late, and that is more information that he should have known, somehow, before he walked in and had this...relationship...shoved in his face. If it was Cameron, or Cuddy, he could have understood it, at least.

He could have fought it.

He sets his jaw and says, "If you wanted to keep hiding this, you didn't have to let me in."

House gets to his feet slowly, and the playful glint has left his eyes. "Still don't," he says. "Good luck finding a hotel at this hour, if you're worried the couch will turn you gay."

That's never been the issue, of course. House brushes past him on the way to the bedroom, and Wilson says, "There's a reason you didn't tell me."

House turns around, eyeing him. "I don't want you sleeping here forever," he says, which, in House-speak, is almost an answer. "I don't like houseguests who don't put out."

He leaves Wilson to figure out what the hell that's supposed to mean.

* * *

For once, when Wilson comes by Diagnostics to steal Cameron's coffee, he doesn't time his visit by House's arrival. It's far too early to expect House to be in, and Wilson did his best to keep his morning routine of showering, dressing, and making breakfast quiet. House is a light sleeper, and Wilson probably woke him up, but he didn't emerge from his bedroom to complain (and, from other trips through other divorces, Wilson knows how House loves to complain in the mornings). Wilson left early, just so that he could hold on to the illusion that they're okay. That the only reason they didn't talk this morning is because they will when House gets in to work and needs someone to listen to his rants or back up his alibis to Cuddy. That everything is utterly, completely normal.

It's a nice dream, but it's not the truth. When Wilson pulls open the door to the conference room, Foreman's the only one sitting at the table, going over House's older charts and correcting the notations. Under House's messy scrawl of "Darwin-award contender adds illiteracy to his many charms", Foreman has added "accidental overdose of contraindicated medications" in tidy script. Wilson heads for the coffee machine without stopping. It's fresh, and just finished perking, and he debates filling two cups, but when he glances at Foreman he can see the tension in his shoulders. He'd reject anything Wilson tried to give him right now, so Wilson pours for himself and leans back against the counter to take a sip.

"Listen," Foreman says without looking up, his pen still scratching. "Before you say anything, let me make it perfectly clear that I don't want to talk about it."

Wilson grimaces. He hates being so transparent, but what other conversation could he possibly start? He can't even remember a time in the two years since Foreman was hired that they've even had a conversation, or been alone in the same room. "I'm...surprised," he says.

That gets him a look. Foreman raises an eyebrow, the picture of sarcastic disbelief. Wilson sees echoes of House in his expression, and bites down hard not to say anything. "You're surprised," Foreman says flatly.

"You don't find it surprising?" Wilson asks. "On the surface, there doesn't seem to be any...connection between you."

Foreman tosses his pen on the table and crosses his arms, leaning back in his seat. "Dr. Wilson. No offense, but it's not really any of your business."

This was easier with Cameron. At least then, when Wilson warned her what she might be getting into with House, he knew it was a remote possibility at best. Now he's floundering, uncertain of where he stands. "You're sleeping with your boss," he says. "You don't think I should be concerned?"

"You aren't my superior. If Cuddy has a problem with this..." Foreman trails off, but his expression implies that there'll be hell to pay if Cuddy finds out.

Wilson glances away, down at his coffee. He's not, should never be, the one turning House in for workplace indiscretions.

"It hasn't affected my job, or my ability to work with Cameron and Chase." Foreman gathers up the files he was working on and stands up. "Look, I know he's your friend, but...he didn't even tell you for three months."

Wilson puts down his mug. He wants to get upset, to be the injured party, but Foreman's right. It's none of his business. It's the first time in ten years that something House has done hasn't been. "He told me last night," he says, holding back the things he'd rather say. Rather ask.

Foreman shakes his head dismissively. "Because you walked in? That was a coincidence."

"This is House we're talking about," Wilson says. He's learned not to believe in coincidence over the years. "He let me in."

Foreman laughs. "And that's exactly the difference between us, Dr. Wilson. I don't actually care if he lets me in." He tilts his head, eyebrows raised, and tucks his charts under his arm. "Now," he says, "if you'll excuse me, I actually have work to do."

He walks out. After a moment, Wilson very carefully pours the rest of his coffee down the sink, and goes back to his office.

* * *

For the next week, Wilson watches them. He doesn't know what he's looking for, but it's got to be there. It started, and it went on, right under his nose, so there must have been a sign he missed--House watching Foreman with that look in his eyes that's mostly curiosity and almost tender; Foreman acting warmer, shaking his head over House's antics instead of turning away in disgust. Somehow, it started, and somehow, Wilson missed the whole thing. So maybe he wasn't paying close enough attention, and maybe that's what House was trying to tell him when he let Wilson interrupt them.

But the crazy part is, if Wilson didn't know, then there wouldn't be anything to catch them at. Foreman argues just as hard during the differentials, and House constantly pokes holes in his theories along with a parade of insults and jokes at his expense. Foreman mainly rolls his eyes and carries on with the day's business. He's not like Cameron, hanging on House's every word and watching soulfully for whatever effect she hopes to have. He's not Chase, always eager to be as much like House as he can and begging for a pat on the head.

When Wilson stops to think about it, he realises that Foreman's always been the aloof one, who acts as if he doesn't need anything from House. He's always said he's just there to learn, and once he's gotten everything he can from his fellowship, he'll move on and never look back.

That's probably what got House interested in the first place. Foreman's the independent one, so Foreman's the one that House wants. House likes toys he can't have. He likes ripping into careful packaging and then playing with the contents until they break. Since Foreman hasn't broken yet, that explains why House continued this...

Wilson stops before he gets to the word 'relationship'. He can't help it. He sighs, sits back in his office chair, and pinches the bridge of his nose. House hasn't been acting any differently towards him at all, barging in at all hours of the day, demanding money for lunches, seeking him out in the cafeteria or the oncology lounge or the clinic whenever it looks like Wilson might actually start being productive. And that, more than anything else, is weird as hell. House should be avoiding him like the plague, retreating to all his secret-secret hideouts that even Wilson's not supposed to know about. If this thing with Foreman meant anything, House would be doing his damnedest to get away from Wilson. He's got to know that Wilson would have developed this case of morbid curiosity. That he needs to know what the hell is happening inside House's head.

On the other hand, if this thing with Foreman meant nothing, then House would be broadcasting it with a megaphone across the entire hospital grapevine, and probably wearing t-shirts that proclaim "I Banged Eric Foreman. Ask Me How!" to all the department head meetings.

Wilson doesn't have the same craving for puzzles that House does...unless the puzzle is House himself. And none of this makes any sense. None of it fits. Wilson's left at the end of the day going home to House's apartment, making himself a meal and eating it alone, because House is hardly ever there. He can't even think about getting his own place. The idea stops him cold every time, and he can't get around it. Besides, things with Julie are still up in the air. Work is busy. Looking for an apartment on top of that is... Well. He can't, not now, not with...how things are.

He lays out his dinner on the coffee table and tucks a napkin into his collar. He turns the news on with the volume low enough that he doesn't have to listen if today's local disasters have been too depressing. The murmur of the newscasters will have to do to keep him company, since House has been keeping odd hours to match his latest patient's intermittent symptoms. Today, though, it looked like the girl was stabilized, and Wilson expected House to stake out his spot on the couch by six, demand to be fed, and refuse to move except to forage in the fridge for beer. By the time Wilson slips his dishes into the sink, it's past midnight, and the news spools out into infomercials that he doesn't care about but can't seem to turn off.

He's learning how to get grass stains out of socks better than the leading laundry detergent could ever hope to, when the front door clicks open. He jerks upright and turns, right on time to see House step inside, almost quietly enough that Wilson might think House is trying consideration on for size, if he didn't know better.

Except all Wilson needs to do is see the look on House's face, the way his lips tighten and he scowls as he pulls his motorcycle jacket off, and he knows. House was with Foreman. At Foreman's apartment. Fucking.

House moves into the living room, limping heavier than usual. Wilson carefully turns back to the glare of the television screen so that he doesn't have to think about why. The infomercials have switched over to test patterns, but Wilson leaves his finger on the remote resting on his thigh, and doesn't turn off the TV.

"Been waiting up long?" House asks, sharp and bitter, because he wants his words to cut before there's even anything to defend against.

"I'm not keeping tabs on you, House." There's no point in admitting that he was waiting for the rumble of the motorcycle, the snick of House's key in the lock.

"No, you're just watching test patterns at two in the morning because of the scintillating character development."

"The orange bar has the chops to go on to a solo career," Wilson agrees. It's not the time for jokes, but this is how they talk. "I think the soundtrack album's overrated, though."

From the corner of his eye, he can see House pause, his mouth twitching as he resists a smile. "That one piercing note? I can see how it could get annoying if you listened to it for too long."

Wilson sighs. He's exhausted, and worse, he's going to be exhausted all day tomorrow. The couch is lumpier than he remembered, and no matter what he tries, he can't get comfortable. "House, I'm not lecturing you." He's not; he's carefully holding his questions behind his teeth. He doesn't want to know. Still, he can't help adding, "Which makes me wonder why you're acting like a guilty teenager.

He can practically feel House tense and back off a step, like a bristly cat stalking its offended way out of range. "Gee, Dad, I didn't dent the car, and I promise I used protection."

Wilson's lips tighten before he can stop himself. Even in the dim light of the television, House has to have noticed. Wilson can feel his stare, angry and familiar, watching and waiting for a reaction. "I'd ask if you'll still respect him in the morning," Wilson says, "but I seem to recall that you never did in the first place, so I guess that's not a concern."

"Worried about Foreman's feelings? Trust me, he doesn't have any."

"That's fascinating," Wilson says, losing control enough that the sarcasm heats his throat and he can barely swallow. "I wonder what that's like for him."

"You mean that wasn't your first question during your little tete-a-tete last week?"

And of course House knows about that. Wilson imagines Foreman telling him, fucking him, pounding into him and hissing into his ear, exactly what Wilson said, what an idiot he made of himself. "No, I think my first question was how he manages to fuck you without gagging you first," he snaps.

"Who says he doesn't?"

Wilson jerks his head around. House is staring at him, leaning into the confrontation, all electric blue and shadows thrown from the television. So that's the reaction he was looking for. House wants to linger over details, describe everything: Foreman's skin and sweat and his weight against House's back, how he moves, what he says, how hard House comes when Foreman forces it out of him. He wants Wilson to ask. He wants him to know.

"Tasteful," Wilson says instead, straining his voice for that quiet, ironic disapproval that House hates more than anything. "If only Stacy had known, she might have kept you in line a little longer."

That's his trump card, one Wilson doesn't play often. It's a reminder that he can hurt House, will hurt him if he has to. House looks away, his anger turning inwards, and Wilson's won, for now, but he hates himself for it. House heads to his bedroom without another word.

Wilson switches off the TV. The room's dark even when his eyes adjust to the streetlight filtering in through the window. Wilson closes his eyes and spreads himself out as best he can. He can hear House in the bathroom, walking down the hall, limp-step-tap, and maybe even his breathing, if he strains his ears. The walls of the apartment are thin. He can hear everything. He's lying on the couch where House has sucked Foreman off, where House let himself be fucked, where Foreman took control and House wanted him to.

Beneath the scratchy blanket that still smells of House, he's hard, and there's nothing at all he can do about it.

* * *

  
\

Wilson catches them making out in the parking lot three days later.

It's an accident. He's working late, and by the time he looks up from his Phase II clinical trial proposal, the hospital is mostly deserted. Wilson packs the draft of the informed consent forms into his briefcase. It's likely he'll have House's apartment to himself, and he needs something better to do than watch reruns of _Bewitched_ and take a lot less pleasure from them without House barking at him to switch channels to anything else, ever.

Diagnostics is dark, and the clinic is closed. Most of the office wing of the hospital is dim and empty, and Wilson steps out into the evening without passing anyone. He curls deeper into his coat, keeping out the wet New Jersey cold. Fresh snow skiffs the sidewalks, and there's enough still drifting down that Wilson feels the sharp touch of each snowflake against his cheeks when he tilts his head back, trying to stretch the tension out of his neck. The parking lot's full, with spillover from the ER lot and the night shift's cars, and Wilson's digging his keys out of his coat pocket, so he doesn't see them right away. He hears them first, and he's already blushing when he looks up, thinking he's stumbled on some kids having fun.

Instead Wilson sees...not much, because it's dark--two figures, and the lunging movement of a desperate kiss. Then Foreman moves back and for a moment Wilson can see House's face, his ragged look of defiant concentration, the steam of his breath. They're about ten feet away, standing next to House's old beater, and Wilson can almost make out Foreman's low murmur before he moves back in and they're kissing again. House is taller, but Foreman has him trapped against his car, shoving into his space, holding him by his upper arms. Wilson can see the indentation of House's motorcycle jacket under Foreman's fingers, and thinks he must be gripping hard enough to hurt.

Wilson knows he should leave, escape before he's seen, forget it's ever happened, but House is leaning into Foreman's body, and his left hand is fisted in the back of Foreman's jacket. Wilson can't breathe. The air is cold but he feels hot right through. He tightens his grip on his briefcase. He wants to back away, but the sound of them stops him. He's burning, anger and embarrassment and that heat that's not quite either, and he can hear them. The brush of cloth, House's soft grunt, the way Foreman breaks the kiss to growl short, quick words. Wilson doesn't have to hear them to know they're questions, Foreman asking, "You like that, House? You want it?" House doesn't answer, but he bends closer and moves his grip higher on Foreman's back.

"Yeah," Foreman says--Wilson hears that clearly, the amused and dismissive tone of his voice, when Foreman steps back. Wilson can only see the confident set of Foreman's shoulders, and he knows that Foreman's relaxed, in control.

Wilson takes another step back, his foot scraping gravel, and House looks up, scowling. Wilson knows what he must look like to House: mouth open, wide-eyed, innocent little Jimmy. He snaps his mouth shut and glares back. He expects House to call out to him, something as loud and embarrassing as possible.

But House only watches him, and when he leans in to murmur something to Foreman, he's still meeting Wilson's eyes.

Wilson twists on his heel and heads back to the hospital.

* * *

_Fuck_ House.

Wilson doesn't know where he's going, and he doesn't care if anyone sees him. His heart's pounding, he can't catch his breath, he can't see anything except House's eyes. Watching him. Fuck. He's almost back to his office--the couch there is even less comfortable than House's, but there's no way he can stay at House's place tonight--when he hears footsteps behind him. His whole body tenses. Foreman, of course. There's no way House could have caught up.

"Wilson!"

Wilson hunches his shoulders and stops, his hand white-knuckled against his office door.

"Wilson." Foreman stands right behind him.

Wilson turns around, wondering when he stopped being _Doctor_ Wilson to Foreman. "Sorry to interrupt," he says mildly, leaning his head against the door. He feels crazily ironic, and somewhere at the back of his mind he's rolling his eyes at himself. He's doing his best not to despise Foreman, who probably doesn't deserve it. "Again."

Foreman slants a glance at him. Then, completely unexpectedly, he tilts his head back and laughs. "Okay," he says. "Message received."

Wilson frowns at him. He's never understood this about Foreman, the detached way that he sits back and watches confrontations, and never seems touched by them. When House acts the hotshot, there's always the sense that he knows he's putting on a mask, that he's watching carefully in case someone can see past it. When Foreman raises his eyebrows and chuckles, like he can't believe the people around him could possibly be quite so dense, there's never any doubt behind it. One day, House is going to prove Foreman irrevocably wrong, and Wilson knows that's the day that this thing between them will end.

"Look," Foreman says indulgently, and Wilson wants to wipe the smugness right off his face. "It's pretty obvious that you're interested. You can go ahead, you know. Make your move."

"I'm not--" The lie comes easily. Three marriages later and it still does. As long as he's denying there's anything wrong between him and his wives, he might as well go one step further and deny the problem that was there since the start. "I'm not interested."

Foreman lets out another snort of laughter. "You were watching."

"I didn't know--" It sounds pathetic, but Wilson almost wants to say _I didn't know House could look like that, kissing_. If Stacy ever brought that expression to House's face, then Wilson must have turned away, focusing his attention to other things. He didn't think anyone else would ever come close to seeing past all of House's bullshit barriers. Foreman has no idea what he's been given--something that Cameron would kill for, even now, Wilson thinks, something Cuddy wishes she had, to keep House in line.

Something that should have been Wilson's.

Foreman shakes his head, his smile a flash of white in the hall's low light. "You were turned on," he says. "House knew."

Wilson swallows, clears his throat. _House knew_. "You don't care?"

"Listen, you're not going to cramp my style." Foreman takes a step forward, and Wilson straightens against the door's support behind him. Foreman leans in, like he's delivering a secret, when he says, "I don't need House."

Wilson snorts. "You were kissing him."

Foreman shrugs, but Wilson's found his way in, the hole that Foreman's armour doesn't quite cover. Wilson gave the same speech to Cameron, and hearing it from Foreman doesn't make it much different. "Why are you fucking him, then?" he asks.

Foreman rolls his eyes and steps back a bit, enough to give Wilson his space. "House puts me through a lot of crap," he says. "If I get this in exchange, then that works for me. It's not anything more than that."

"Right," Wilson says, drawing the word out just enough to grate on Foreman's nerves. The hole is there and he's apparently learned more from House than he ever thought, because all he can think of is proving to Foreman that it's there, that he's just as weak as anybody else. "That's why you cared enough to follow me. This isn't about warning me off? Maybe you're right. Maybe I'm going to tell House--"

Wilson stops, but it's enough. Foreman's shoulders are bunching, and his lips are set. "He told you I fuck him, didn't he?" Foreman says, his teeth grazing his lower lip on the fricative. "He wanted me to, right from the beginning. Didn't say anything, but he made it pretty clear from the way he was shoving his ass against me."

A breath passes while Wilson imagines it--House silent and sly and needy, spreading his legs as best he can, holding himself up and slanted and pushing back onto Foreman's cock, relishing the pain because it means he can allow himself two, three, half a dozen Vicodin afterwards--and then Wilson lets Foreman's words pass through him. He's supposed to be getting angry, but Foreman doesn't have House's touch for finding exactly what button to press, ten years of friendship to learn how to say exactly the wrong thing. And Wilson has all the ammunition he needs. "Did you enjoy that, Foreman?" he asks. "Being in control of the department wasn't enough for you, and so you decided to take it one step further?" Foreman's eyes widen, and Wilson catches his breath in a helpless laugh. "That's it, isn't it? There wasn't any argument about _patient care_. It was while you were running the department--"

Foreman's building up like a bomb about to explode, anger gathering in his arms, in the jut of his jaw. Wilson laughs again, incredulously. "You think this means something, that he lets you fuck him? That you're in charge?" Even Wilson doesn't have that kind of fantasy, that House would let it mean more than House wants when someone touches him. "You're just a convenience to him, and cheaper than a hooker."

"It's more than you've got," Foreman says. "More than you'll ever--"

He's right, of course he's right; and knowing that, Wilson moves forward, and kisses him.

House isn't the only one who can do this, after all.

It's not a shock when Foreman kisses him in return. Wilson lets Foreman push him back, until they reach the wall, and Foreman's hands are pressed flat against it on either side of his shoulders. Wilson's taller, but Foreman tilts his head back easily (_three months with House_) and presses up into him. Wilson's jacket is undone and he can feel the heat of Foreman's body through the gap, the potential weight of him. Foreman doesn't touch him anywhere else, just cages Wilson with his arms and kisses him. Foreman's lips are soft, the brush of his goatee unfamiliar and tantalizing. Wilson closes his eyes, lets Foreman kiss him like he's got something to prove. Wilson's been frozen since the parking lot, and now he feels warmth come creeping back, washing through his arms and legs and torso. He breathes into the kiss and frowns away the idea that there might be some remnant of House in the taste of Foreman's mouth. That's not what this is.

Wilson moves his hand forward, brushing against Foreman's stomach, to his hip. Foreman kisses him harder, a warning more than encouragement, but Wilson doesn't stop, lets his hand drift lower, over the front of Foreman's pants.

Foreman breaks the kiss and steps back, breathing quickly, eyes darting to Wilson's hand. Wilson drops his arm.

It's only a second later that Foreman looks up at him, his mouth soft, his dark eyes warmed by a slight smile. "Sorry," he says, and he hasn't lost an inch of that puffed-up condescension. "I'm not that easy." He raises his eyebrows and backs off one more step, before turning around and sauntering towards the elevator.

Wilson leans back against his door and watches Foreman go. When he realises he's thinking about following him, Wilson licks his lips and rubs his fingertips against his thigh. They're still tingling. Foreman was hard, his cock pressing hot and firm into Wilson's hand.

He can't help thinking that Foreman is exactly that easy, and the first one to prove it to him was House.

* * *

Wilson's finishing the consent forms the next morning, between nervous glances out at the balcony and across the office to the hallway door. For years he's been used to House's intrusions, to the small interruptions of his daily life. He gathers together stories and gossip and decides how he will respond the next time House makes a joke about the toys that line his shelves, or his latest patient who is, inevitably, dying, or his ties or his shoes or his wives. He's ready for House. As much as every time House bursts in is a surprise, it's also got its own routine, and Wilson knows exactly how to effect maximum damage control with minimum time loss. And House knows just as easily how to convince Wilson that neither time management nor damage control are what he really wants, so Wilson finds himself playing games of quarters and dominoes and (just one time, before House dive-bombed Cuddy with a beautiful shot) water balloons. Wilson's used to House. It's not House he's waiting for.

He ended up spending the night in his office. He has an extra suit hanging in a garment bag on the back of his door, but his shirt, tie, and socks are the same. At some hour of the morning that he hasn't been awake to see since he was cramming for his exams during his residency, Wilson snuck down to the locker room showers and turned the water on full and hot. He jerked off, leaning his right forearm against the cool tile, resting his forehead on his arm, biting his lip and trying not to breathe until the slickness of the soap washed everything clean. He wasn't thinking of House, not exactly. Instead, in his mind it was Foreman he watched, the broad muscles of his back, the clench of his ass as he drove into House. Wilson's hand knows the size and weight of Foreman's cock, and when he squeezes himself, remembering, he can't quite stop a gasp that could be heard over the torrent of water, if there was anyone around to hear.

Wilson's pen trails off the end of the consent forms, his handwriting even more of a disaster than usual. Christine's going to sigh at him and promise to do her best at typing it up, and Wilson will smile apologetically at her and nearly blush because the clinical trial was the last thing on his mind when he wrote it. He clenches his hands on top of his desk and is glad, instead, that today's schedule isn't filled with appointments and sympathy, because he doesn't think he can show his face outside his office.

He's so lost in his thoughts that for once it's a complete surprise when House bangs his door open and steps in, already halfway into a complaint, something about Cuddy and clinic hours that Wilson's heard a thousand variations on before. House is the consummate jazz musician, because somehow the same whine never sounds the same way twice. Wilson takes a breath and looks up, and he's already given himself away, even before he says anything, even before he looks House in the eyes.

House is smirking at his tie.

Wilson grips the edge of his desk and doesn't even bother pretending not to know what comes next. Still, it's worth a token effort to head House off at the pass, so Wilson ignores his stare and says, "Cuddy told you she was tired of you ogling her breasts, told you to go ogle someone else's instead, then gave you a patient file? How is this a surprise to you?"

House shrugs. "The patient had unresolved mastitis." Wilson wrinkles his nose, but House is already stalking closer, his story forgotten. "Nice tie," he says. "I'm pretty sure it was the height of fashion...say, yesterday?"

"I'm hoping that my absence on your couch last night might have tipped you off to the fact that I slept here sooner than my tie would," Wilson says. "Then again, the only reason you might have noticed I was gone would be when they arrested you for shoplifting your lunch from the cafeteria when I wasn't there to pay."

"Didn't quite make it home early enough to catch you sawing logs," House says. "Foreman was late getting in, though."

Wilson swallows. Blood rushes in his ears. He licks his lips, remembers the touch of Foreman's mouth against his.

House's gaze drags over him, rough and searching as his touch would be. "Energetic, isn't he?"

Wilson shifts in his chair, horrified to realise that he's getting turned on, just from the way House is _watching_ him, something he's done every day since Wilson has known him. And the only thing that's changed is--

"You'd know," he says, "better than I would."

"Yeah," House says. Wilson wonders if he's imagining the flush creeping higher on House's face. The fever-hectic brightness of his eyes is nothing new, but now Wilson knows what's going on in House's head. Just like he always wanted.

"Nothing happened," Wilson adds. He's watching House's fingers stroking the head of his cane. He shifts again, thinking of House's fingers grasping a pillow, the sheets--something in soft pastels, with an astonishingly high threadcount, because Foreman wouldn't settle for anything less. House out of control. House wanting, needing. And Foreman laughing breathlessly in his ear when he comes.

"Obviously," House says. "Foreman was very emphatic about that."

"How?" he asks, and his throat stops. He tries again, asking, "What...did he do?" and as much as he didn't want to know yesterday, or the day before, now he's burning with curiosity. He knows how Foreman kisses. Now he wonders how he touches, whether his hands are as soft as his mouth, what his body is like underneath the careful press of suits and ties.

"Enjoyed winding him up, didn't you?" House has no intention of telling him anything. "Jimmy the flirt," he says. "Jimmy the tease."

Wilson shifts his gaze to House's face, wondering how he got quite so close. The desk between them feels as insubstantial as air. House knows every secret it hides, after all. "All right," he says, and he's astonished at how calmly his voice comes out. "You got me. I want him. That doesn't mean I'm going to have him."

"Why not?" House circles the desk, fingertips playing idly through the sand in Wilson's Zen garden, drifting along the surface of the desk.

Wilson turns his chair to face him. He can't let House get close if he's not watching every move. "This is a bad idea."

House pauses, looks out the balcony window as if he expects Foreman to show up, too. "Well, if you're going to let _that_ stop you--"

"I'm not," Wilson says. "I didn't stop him, House."

House is close enough to loom over him, and Wilson pushes his chair back and stands up to find safer footing. It's not the right move; House is in his space immediately, warm and _close_ and Wilson almost thinks that House is going to kiss him, too. If he does, Wilson wonders if he can bring that open, uncertain look to House's face if he tries. He can almost taste House's breath, can nearly hear the irregularity of House's heartbeat, and the space between them is so slight that he would barely have to reach to settle his hands on House's waist and pull him close. He wants to know what it would be like--the scrape of House's stubble, the dry press of his lips, the way his fingers would curl into Wilson's body until he felt tousled and sharp with pleasure.

House leans in, but he's canted off-course, because he doesn't come near Wilson's mouth, open already in anticipation. "You know what I want," House says, his voice and his cheek raspy beside Wilson's ear, and then the space in front of Wilson is cool and empty, and his office door bangs shut behind House when he leaves.

* * *

When Wilson arrives at House's apartment, he hesitates before using his key. Already, in the days he's been staying at House's place, more of his things have migrated from Julie's house (already he thinks of it as hers). There was a time he felt just as comfortable walking in House's front door as his own, and some nights he couldn't imagine going _home_ to any other place. Now, when he opens the door without knocking and heads into the living room, he feels like a stranger, like every step is taking him into a world that isn't his.

That feeling is only compounded when he finds Foreman on House's couch, again, House sitting beside him this time and nursing a beer. For once, Foreman looks less than comfortable, although he's hiding it well behind a truly pissed-off expression. House has his feet up on the coffee table, and when Wilson catches his eyes, he doesn't give anything away.

Foreman moves first, impatiently, snatching the beer out of House's hand and setting it on the table. "Bastard," he mutters, shoving closer to House and kissing him, lifting one hand to his face to hold him still. House moves his legs down from the table, tilts his head back to the angle Foreman wants, and Foreman hums approvingly. Wilson watches them, and there's an instant when he wants to walk away, not have to deal with the fallout, but it doesn't last. No matter what he imagined, the reality is hotter. The line of House's neck as he arches back, Foreman's hand gripping his shoulder and forcing him deeper into the couch--it's enough, he's convinced. Wilson tugs at his tie, loosening it around his neck, then slips it off with a quick hiss of fabric. He heads to the couch, feeling like he's in a trance, and pulls Foreman away from House. He's here. If this is what House wants, Wilson wants it too.

He kisses Foreman first, because it's easier. They start slowly, but Foreman turns impatient and playful, nudging closer and then backing off. The two of them kneel over House on the couch, and by the time Wilson realises that there are more hands than he can account for groping at him, his shirt is flapping open, untucked from his pants. House sits up, then, and murmurs in his ear, "_Easy_," and Wilson's caught between rolling his eyes and laughing, because this is anything but.

"Come on," Foreman says, standing up. He offers his hand to Wilson and pulls him up, shoving his shirt off his shoulders and then kissing him again. Wilson does his best, clumsy with the distraction, to undo Foreman's buttons too, while they wait for House to get to his feet. They both know him well enough not to try and help.

House glares at them, then he finds his cane and heaves himself up. He swats Wilson's calf with it, then growls, "Get going," and heads for the bedroom.

Foreman eases back and raises an eyebrow at Wilson. Somehow his conceited grin is much hotter when he's smug because of how he can rumple Wilson to breathless disarray. "Yeah," Wilson says, and they follow House down the hallway.

Wilson worries that getting undressed will be awkward, but it's not at all; Foreman stands in front of House, sitting on the bed, and strips off his t-shirt and jeans with practiced efficiency. He glosses over House's leg like it's nothing, which isn't surprising now, but Wilson wonders if he ignored it the same way his first time with House, and if that had anything to do with why House let this grow as complicated as it has. When Foreman takes off his clothes, he shows more grace than Wilson's ever seen, and his body is amazingly beautiful, warm rolling muscles and smooth skin. He looks over his shoulder at Wilson, once, and his eyes are soft enough to be nothing but invitation.

Wilson loses track then, because they tangle together on the bed, and it's nothing but contrasts. He holds Foreman's back, firm and broad, and House's hands are touching him, long clever fingers finding places he didn't even know he could feel so good. House bites at his chest and collarbone, mutters, "Flirt," and "Moron," and other love-words into Wilson's skin. Foreman laughs and kisses House, his hand reaching for House's erection and stroking him until he's hard. "Shut up," he says, and House does, mostly, keeping his groans low and panting.

Then, Wilson's kneeling behind Foreman, where he can press his dick into the curve of his ass. He pumps Foreman from behind, and Foreman closes his eyes, his mouth open in a silent groan. Over his shoulder, Wilson can see House's face, his eyes sleepy with desire, and for a moment, House's hand joins his on Foreman's cock and they're stroking him in syncopation. There's no rhythm to it, and Foreman thrusts gently into their hands, his breath hissing between his teeth. "I want," Wilson says, "I want to watch you fuck him." He watches House's eyes as he says it, watches him lick his lips in anticipation.

"Turn over," Foreman orders, and House hesitates for only a second before he rolls over without a word. Foreman stretches out, sorting through the mess on House's bedside table until he finds a condom and a bottle of lube.

"Let me," Wilson says, hoarsely. Foreman glances at him, then hands over the lube. Wilson opens it and spreads it over his fingers, slick and warming in his hands. House shudders when Wilson first touches him, sliding one finger along his ass to his perineum. Wilson presses two fingers in, slowly, wondering if it'll be too much, but House is already impatient, pushing back. Foreman rips open the condom and rolls it on. He's on House's other side, massaging his shoulders, one hand covering Wilson's on House's shoulder to keep him still. Wilson shifts so that he can work another finger in, and mutters into House's spine, "I know. I know what you want," as he reaches further, deeper. More lube, and then Wilson fingers him again, until House gasps, his back jumping sharply underneath Wilson's hand.

"Think you could get on with it?" House says to the pillows, and his voice grits harshly in his throat.

"Thought I was a tease?" Wilson asks him. "At least, so you said..."

"I was talking," House says, "to Foreman," and each word comes out its own breath, while he fucks himself on Wilson's fingers like he can't, doesn't ever want to stop.

"Someday you're going to learn some fucking patience," Foreman mutters, but he's already moving into place, holding himself as he slides in. Wilson drops back to the bed, breathing hard, because House is pushing up on his elbows and his good leg, and Foreman is panting with every thrust. Sweat gathers between them. Wilson can't help touching himself, trying to find the same rhythm.

"Come on," Foreman says, his voice pitched high and urgent. "Christ, House, come on--"

Wilson reaches out, right-handed and awkward, and lets his hand stroke along House's back. House grabs his arm, shoving it against his stomach, until Wilson's hand is trapped between House and the bed, and he barely has enough leverage to grasp his dick. House groans and his movements turn stutter-sharp, and a second later he comes, hot and sticky over Wilson's arm. A moment later, Foreman moans, and collapses to one side, rolling over and panting up at the ceiling.

Wilson strokes himself faster, closing his eyes and reaching for his climax. House makes an irritated sound and pushes himself up. "Stop it," he says, batting Wilson's hand aside, and then he moves lower and closes his mouth over Wilson's dick.

Wilson rolls his head back, sprawling shamelessy under the wet heat of House's mouth, the quick gliding movement of his tongue. "Oh," he says, losing track of his words even as they fall out of him, "fuck, House, oh--"

Somewhere near his ear, Foreman's whispering, "Yeah, suck it, House, do him," and then he's kissing Wilson, his breath hot and moist, and Wilson kisses him back until he feels like every touch is the same touch, House's mouth moving on his cock and Foreman's hands rubbing across his chest. It's so fucking hot, and House is holding him down, fingers digging into his hipbones, and Wilson moans into Foreman's mouth, moving into the pleasure as well as he can. He's ablaze with electricity, completing the circuit between them, thrusting helplessly into House's mouth. His orgasm overtakes him without warning, flooding bright and hot through his body, until he's left lying boneless and panting, sweat-sticky and sated.

House licks him slowly for a moment longer, then shoves up on the bed and buries himself face-down in the sheets. He turns sideways just long enough to eye Foreman and say, "Shouldn't you be off somewhere getting your beauty sleep? We've got a patient to kill tomorrow. Or is that cure? Either way, you come in late, your ass is fired."

"Good night to you, too, House," Foreman says, but there's nothing put-out about his voice. He gets to his feet and reaches matter-of-factly for his clothes. He pulls on his shirt and pants, throws his tie around his neck, and picks up his socks and shoes. Wilson watches, seeing in the way that Foreman dresses that this is their routine. It's easy to picture Foreman throwing House out of his place in exactly the same way. It's all a ritual where neither of them has to care in the least, right up until the last moment, when Foreman brushes a hand down the center of House's back in a way that's almost tender. House grunts softly, a sound that's already half-asleep, an acknowlegement.

Foreman glances at Wilson as he pulls his hand away. Wilson waits for him to speak. Foreman looks at House again, and only nods, as if to himself. He leaves the room quietly, and Wilson listens until he hears the click of the apartment door, as well.

Wilson closes his eyes, listening to House breathe, deep and regular. The strangest part of all is that House hasn't nudged him out of bed, throwing him back to the lumpy couch. He wonders if he should follow Foreman. Maybe leaving is supposed to be something he figures out on his own. But then House's fingers brush against his arm, gripping his wrist lightly, as if he's searching for a pulse, and then he's still again. Wilson sighs, relaxing, glad he doesn't have to move. Not tonight, anyway.

But even as he slides into sleep, with House's fingertips circling his wrist, Wilson's still waiting for the moment when House will kick him out.

* * *

It's been a long time since Wilson woke up pressed into the warmth of another body. It's comfortable in a way that means more than the missing blankets and morning breath. As he drifts out of sleep, Wilson's aware that he's lying on his back, and that House is tucked next to him from shoulder to hip, long and muscle-lean, with his knobby knee brushing Wilson's thigh.

"You can quit faking," House says, and if it's his usual sharp voice then it's too early for Wilson to pretend away the fond note he hears underneath. "No, you can't have five more minutes, and yes, you do have to go in to work today."

"Do you give yourself the same speech every morning?" Wilson asks, giving in and opening his eyes. He wants to hide the way his heart stops when he finds House leaning over him, resting on one elbow. There's nothing beautiful about him. Tiredness draws bags under his eyes, and up close there's more salt than pepper in his stubble. Still, Wilson can't help the smile tugging at his lips, the way his chest tingles as if he's not getting quite enough oxygen.

"Since Cuddy refuses to program her voice into my alarm clock, it's the best I've got," House says. "Get up. You're a lump when you sleep."

"Mmm," Wilson says, and yawns just to be contrary. "Didn't feel you kicking."

"Possible CIPA symptoms, too," House growls. He pokes Wilson in the ribs, roughly, and Wilson jerks away. "Much better."

Wilson rubs his ribs, but the annoyance isn't enough to entirely break up the lazy edge of sleep. He yawns again and watches House through half-closed eyes. House shakes his head, like he can't believe it's come to this, then wraps his hand around the back of Wilson's neck, forcing him up. Wilson blinks at the change, and lifts himself enough to meet House's lips without straining his neck. House kisses him, slow and tender, his thumb rubbing circles at the base of Wilson's skull, where the tension always seems to build. Wilson feels his entire body loosen, falling open, warming like wax under a flame. He nudges closer to House and kisses him unabashedly, anchoring himself with one hand on House's shoulder.

"House," he says, a little breathless, not quite a moan. He wants to see House's face, and he draws back for a breath to look for that expression, uncomplicated by Foreman's presence.

It's there, for an instant, and then House rolls sideways and grabs his cane all in one movement. He sits on the edge of the bed, his back turned to Wilson, and says, "The hospitality suite closes today."

"What?" Wilson asks, even though it's completely clear what House means.

"Time's up," House says. He climbs to his feet, cautiously, and Wilson can see the marks that pain has left, in the line of his back, in the off-center development of his muscles. "I could've found a dozen apartments in two weeks. You're cut. Off the dole."

With that, House limps out of the room. Wilson hears the bathroom door shut, the hiss of the shower. It feels nothing at all like an ending. Wilson turns his face to the sheets, warm from their bodies, smelling sharply of sex. He knows he's awake, that this is real.

He dresses in carefully-pressed clothes, and takes his suitcase with him when he goes.

* * *

Cameron's making coffee and Chase is paging through a medical journal when Wilson wanders in, halfway through a very boring morning of budget planning and staff requirement meetings. It's been impossible to keep focused, and he's just called a break with a well-worn smile, one that his staff will take as sympathy rather than strain. Wilson glances at the whiteboard, and he's grateful to see that it's a whirl of symptoms in House's block capitals, some underlined and others linked with helpful arrows. He waits while the coffee drips through, then pours himself a cup after Cameron and Chase take theirs. "What's the current theory?" he asks, nodding towards the board.

"Could be Wegener's granulomatosis," Cameron says, eternally hopeful.

Chase grins and shakes his head. "Foreman's taking the history. We'll know more then."

Wilson nods absently, and takes a sip of his coffee. The heat is welcome, but he feels disconnected, listening with half an ear to Cameron and Chase debate the significance of the patient's various symptoms. A minute later, Foreman pushes into the conference room with House on his heels, mid-argument. "She's prone to infections, her family doctor forwarded her history, and with the white cell count--"

House heads for the whiteboard and starts scribbling. "Let's poll the masses," he says, capping his pen and turning to Cameron and Chase. "Who here has a specialty in infectious disease--me?"

Cameron rolls her eyes. Foreman slaps the chart down on the conference table, glaring. Chase tentatively raises his hand.

"That's one for me," House says. "Or choice B, the woman who doesn't have so much as a temperature to go with her astonishingly high white count? No one? Great, I win, one-zip. Now, let's get going." He pivots on his cane and starts barking orders, sending Chase off to prep the patient for an angiogram and Cameron to plead her way into an earlier appointment with the MRI machine. "And, Foreman, since you're so interested in the history, track down what we can verify about these former infections. Hearsay is only for criminals who are probably guilty anyway." House glances at Wilson, dismisses him completely, and heads into his office. "She better not be dead before something interesting turns up," he calls over his shoulder, "or I'm bringing popcorn to the next M and M. Nothing goes better with mortality and morbidity than the taste of artificial butter."

Cameron shrugs, and follows Chase out the door. Foreman gives a disgusted sigh and turns to follow them.

"It's not going to last, between you," Wilson says. Maybe only to the empty room. Maybe Foreman's already out of earshot, or doesn't care. But the hiss of the pneumatic door pauses, and Wilson turns to see Foreman standing impatiently on the threshold.

"Don't you think I know that?" Foreman says. He taps one hand against the glass, irritated, then comes back in to the conference room. "What do you think, that what House and I have got is true love? That I want to chain myself to _that_ for the rest of my life? I'm actually not that crazy."

Wilson straightens his shoulders, frowning. "You've been together for months."

"Look, Dr. Wilson. I'm only going to say this once. You want to know why House is with me? The big secret? It's that _I'm not you_." Foreman points at him, a short jab of his finger. "I know how to leave. You don't."

"Actually," Wilson says dryly, "he kicked me out. It's a moot point, I guess--"

Foreman gives an exaggerated roll of his eyes. "Of course he did. You've probably got him shit-scared that he might be in love."

"House may not be capable of that emotion," Wilson says, trying not to sound bitter.

"Bullshit," Foreman says. "I think I know what the man is capable of, by now. And I'm not the only one." He looks pointedly at Wilson, and then he shrugs. "Believe what you like. I don't really care." With that, he heads out into the hall, already paging through the patient's file.

Wilson stands in the empty conference room, left with the burble of the coffee machine, the sigh of the breeze through the open balcony window. In his office, House is fiddling with his iPod, his feet propped up on his desk. When House looks up, Wilson doesn't turn away, even though House has caught him at it again, wanting what House won't let him have. Wilson might say something, but the glass walls of the office would muffle any sounds, and he's trapped, anyway, by House's expression. A little hurt, a little scared, a lot yearning. House isn't going to let it show any time except now.

_You know what I want_, House said, and it's true. House hates to lose. What House wants is to know it's possible between them, and keep playing it safe anyway. For now. For as long as House wants, until maybe, one day, he thinks it might be worth it to take a chance. He wants Wilson to accept that for now, and in that moment, if it ever comes, he wants Wilson not to say no.

Wilson has rounds in an hour, a full afternoon of patient consults after that. When he needs to be, he'll be in control; he'll be Dr. James Wilson, compassionate and caring, the man anyone can turn to in a crisis.

Until then, he goes back to his office, leaving the balcony door unlocked, and waits for House.

_end_


End file.
